


Kill Your Heroes

by MsThunderFrost



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Achilles is an asshole, Achilles is the Champion of Elysium, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Poly, Theseus is Confined to the House of Hades, Zagreus Awkwardly Seduces Patroclus and Achilles for a Free Pass Out of Elysium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28726659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: "It's just a bottle of nectar, right?" It's an... odd sort of chink in Achilles armor, but a chink nonetheless. And, absent any alternatives, it's the best choice that he has. "Just a... friendly bottle of nectar. What could possibly go wrong?"--Achilles is the Champion of Elysium, Theseus is Zagreus' trainor and mentor, and Zagreus is about to seduce his way out of Elysium--one bottle of nectar at a time.Oh, and maybe catch some feelings, along the way.If anyone asks, it was Theseus' idea.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Patroclus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus (Hades Video Game), Patroclus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 250





	1. All Hail the Champion

"Ouch..." Zagreus rises from the Styx after what could only be described as his most humiliating defeat to-date, heat in his cheeks and an ache in his chest where Achilles' spear had _impaled_ him back in the Elysium Arena.

Even with Lord Hermes' aid, he'd scarcely been able to land a blow on the fleet-footed hero--and those few that _had_ connected hadn't seemed to do a lick of damage. It's humiliating, to think of how far he had come, how much _effort_ he had put into strengthening his skills via the Mirror of Night, to have Achilles absolutely decimate him in a little under three minutes. And that, horrifically enough, is an _improvement._ The first time he'd faced off against the Champion of Elysium, he'd had his ass handed to him on a silver platter in a matter of seconds. To make matters worse, it wasn't that the fight had gotten any easier. Achilles had started to drag out the climax of the battle to make it more 'entertaining' for his loving audience. He felt like one of those blasted soul-sucking butterflies, caught in Cerberus' massive, drooling maw. He'd tear them to shreds, then whimper in confusion when the insect wouldn't continue playing with him--when you're prey dies too quickly, it takes all the fun out of playing with them. 

He wishes that there were some sort of obvious _chink_ in Achilles' armor. The Erinyes may be gods, but they are also comprised of flesh and ichor. They can be wounded, and even killed (though they will, inevitably, rise up out of the Styx back at the House--or wherever it is that Meg's sister's reside, when they're not guarding the exit to Tartarus). Lernie is a conglomeration of bone, that can be ground into dust by a few well-placed blows. But Achilles... in life, Achilles had been nigh indestructible, vulnerable only in the small section of heel that Thetis had held when she'd dipped him headfirst into the River Styx as a babe. In death, the gods had seen fit to grant him _true_ invincibility. His final trip through the Styx had corrected the weakness in his heel, rendering him impervious to any and all external threat. He supposes that he could still be poisoned, but the odds of him being able to convince the hero to drink anything he has to offer are slim to none... and he is almost _certain_ that that plan would only work once. 

"Welcome to the House of Hades!" Hypnos offers him a radiant smile, "Wait, I know you! Took another spear to the chest, hmm? Hey, next time, maybe you ought to try dodging!" 

Zagreus huffs; if he cannot avoid Achilles' blows, even with Lord Hermes' aid, he doubts that the solution is so simple. Still, he offers Hypnos a small smile, "I'll try that next time, Hypnos, mate."

His father is chortling. It is clear that the repeated clashes with Achilles have taken their toll on Zagreus' self-confidence. He thinks about stopping to talk with him, but realizes that it's pointless. His father will only make him feel worse for his repeated failures, which is not the kind of energy that he needs right now. So instead of coming before his father's desk, he turns left, to the West Hall. Theseus is standing watch, stationed directly in the middle of the Administrative Chamber and his father's bedchamber, as always. He looks haggard, his lips twisted in the shadow of a smile that doesn't quite reach his twinkling blue eyes. He greets Zagreus as he always does, making no mention of the fact that he has failed, once again, to reach the surface. Theseus has never cared how many times he has failed at learning a new skill, so long as he picks himself back up and continues trying. After all, as long as he continues _learning_ from each failure, he never _truly_ fails. He's rather like Nyx, in that regard. 

"I'm sorry, sir." He says, "I... I honestly don't see how I'm supposed to defeat Achilles. Even with the Olympians' aid, he can run headlong into my spear and walk away unscathed. I know that I can be a tad reckless at times, but he... he's a _monster_." Zagreus shudders. If he had done the same thing, he would've died immediately--and horribly. 

Theseus shakes his head, "He is not a monster, my Prince. There are no monsters in this world--only men, who are so often sorely misunderstood." He continues, "Achilles' weakness is not of the flesh. It is his heart--the man with him, Patroclus of Opus. I'm assuming that you've met him."

"I have. He seems... less prone to bloodshed than Achilles?" He smooths a hand over the back of his neck, "I... made the mistake of killing him, the first time that I entered the Arena. Achilles practically decapitated me." He's still sore about that, in more ways than one. It's not like he'd _wanted_ to kill him, but he and Achilles had been standing in the way of his goal. 

"Instead of fighting him..." Theseus suggests, "perhaps you might _befriend_ him? Patroclus, that is. Achilles... may take a bit of convincing." Patroclus _does_ seem to be the more reasonable of the two, though befriending him... seems like an odd way of getting around the fact that Achilles is literally _invincible_. Much as the fallen hero seems to love him, it seems odd that he'd take pity on Zagreus just because he and Patroclus are friends. Not to mention--

"Isn't that... kind of a cop-out?" He asks. "Not to mention, Meg and I are friends... well, we're friend _ly_... okay, she doesn't hate me... she likes me more than Alecto does!" That, at least, he has some confidence in. "The _point_ is, Meg still makes every effort to kill me. I'm not sure that being _friendly_ would make all that much of a difference--"

"Even so, you won't know unless you try." And then, "I remember, you told me that Patroclus often appears a handful of chambers before you reach the arena, to test your skill."

Zagreus nods, "Well... he calls it testing my skill, but more often than not we don't even fight." It had seemed odd, at first. When he'd first stumbled across Patroclus' glade, he had mistaken him for a friendly shade. That wasn't to say that Patroclus wasn't kind to him in his own, admittedly rather odd, way. If Zagreus' health were below a certain threshold, he wouldn't attack. He would even give him health items, when he had an excess. "He... doesn't seem to like me intruding on his quiet time." 

"He offers you boons, then?" He supposes that you could call them that, yes. "It is only fair that you offer him something in return. You've accumulated quite the stash of nectar--perhaps offering him a bottle or two could help pave the way for something... more?"

It's... certainly not the worst idea that Theseus could have come up with. And Theseus has had some absolutely _horrid_ ideas. He is the worst enabler (on the one hand, it's nice to have someone--just _one_ person--who legitimately believes that he can reach the surface, even if it means finding a way to carve a path through the great Champion of Elysium--on the other, he'd gotten into all sorts of trouble as a kid because Theseus 'encouraged his adventurous spirit'). He feels sort of bad about it--like he's taking advantage of Patroclus' kindness. But then... the fallen warrior _does_ seem rather lonely. It might be nice to make a new friend, even if it doesn't get him any closer to besting the greatest of the Greeks in the Elysium Arena. And if worming his way into Patroclus' heart gets him that much closer to Achilles', then that's one less obstacle standing between him and his mother. And that, in and of itself, makes the entire endeavor more than worth the effort. 

"It's just a bottle of nectar, right?" It's an... odd sort of chink in Achilles armor, but a chink nonetheless. And, absent any alternatives, it's the best choice that he has. "Just a... friendly bottle of nectar. What could possibly go wrong?" He smiles to himself, feeling a bit more confident now that he has a plan for how to proceed when next he crosses paths with the Champion of Elysium. 

And Theseus, who is almost certain that the naive prince hadn't the slightest about what he'd _truly_ suggested, just nods and smiles tiredly, "Best of luck to you, my Prince."


	2. Hector's Broken Spear

It's just a bottle of nectar. He’s offered them to Thanatos and Megaera, whose reactions had been… well, frosty, at best. And Hypnos and Nyx and Dusa, who had all seemed… confused, but on the whole, thankful for the kind offering. He’s yet to have someone outright refuse him, but he supposes that there’s a first time for everything. Zagreus can only hope that Patroclus is able to see the kind gesture for what it is, and does not think of it as some sort of bribe (which it also happens to be, but that’s beside the point).

There's about a fifty percent chance that he won't stumble across Patroclus at all, this run. There are few constants in the Underworld, but he's come to anticipate that, approximately halfway through Elysium, he will stumble upon one of two chambers: the first containing a dire Soul Catcher, which would periodically summon Elite Disarmed Souls, and the second containing Patroclus. There's also an, admittedly rather slim, chance that he could make it through the entirety of Elysium without encountering either. It would seem that the Fates are feeling particularly cruel this run—when he stumbles across Patroclus' glade, nestled away in the heart of the Elysian fields, the fallen warrior is not alone. Not only that, but his companion is the damnable Champion himself, Achilles. 

Achilles is perched on Patroclus' lap, the hem of his mint green chiton hiked up so that Zagreus—or any shade who happened to wander into this particular pocket of Elysium—had an uninhibited view of his ass. The soft fabric is bunched in Patroclus' hand, the dark veins on the back of his hand becoming ever more pronounced as he squeezes and tugs at the fabric to guide Achilles' body along the length of his cock. Had they... really not heard him come in? No, there's no way. The locking mechanisms on the chamber doors cause the entire chamber to quake whenever they move, the ear-splitting grinding of the gears that fill the crevices in-between the chambers only outdone by the way that the doors _slam_ whenever they close. Which means that they _know_ they have an audience, and simply don't care. 

Achilles is surprisingly nimble for a man with a stick lodged so far up his ass, Zagreus can see it each time he opens his mouth. He's slid into a near full-split, and is wholly reliant on Patroclus' near iron-clad hold on his chiton to keep him upright as he rocks his hips back and forth at an almost violent speed. "P-Pat... _Pat_..."

"Shh... I have you, Achilles." Patroclus' voice is devastatingly gentle, as he moves one hand to stay the movement of Achilles' hips. "You need to relax. You're carrying too much tension." Is Achilles even _capable_ of relaxing? Zagreus doesn't know—but he feels his chances of escape dwindling with every second he continues to linger in this glade.

"That worthless shade insulted your honor!" Achilles hisses. He hooks his fingers into the earth, bringing up great clumps of dewy grass. 

Patroclus rolls his eyes, "Yes, I know. I was there, as you might recall." He runs a soothing hand along the curve of Achilles' back. Zagreus can see the way the Champion's muscles are twitching beneath his armor, his entire body practically thrumming with furious energy. "But, seeing as you are currently seated on _my_ cock—"

"A fact of which I am _delightfully_ aware..." Achilles purrs, swooping down to deliver what Zagreus assumes is a kiss. It's impossible to see either of their faces, as they're both hidden away behind a curtain of wheat-blonde hair. 

"Yes, well..." Patroclus clears his throat. "I'm going to have to ask you to be just a _wee_ bit gentler, love." 

Achilles lets out a dramatic huff, before throwing himself backward. Zagreus has his doubts about whether or not that can be considered being 'gentler', when he realizes that he's been watching two men who, up until that point, have been hell-bent on killing him, have sex for the last ten minutes or so. And, to his horror and shame, the stirring between his legs suggests that he _likes_ what he sees. The problem is not that he is observing two men, or that both men had, at one point, attempted to kill him—though, in retrospect, perhaps that _should_ have been a problem. The problem is that one of the men he is observing is Achilles- _fucking_ -Pelides, the cocksure Champion of Elysium who had been making his life a living hell for the last week and a half. 

He has impaled him with his spear in more places than he cares to count, broken more bones than Zagreus knew that he had, and ruthlessly degraded him all the while. It's bad enough that his father seemed to never be satisfied with the work he produced, no matter how hard he tried. That Meg had told him he could 'do what he will,' because he knew, deep-down, that he was no longer welcome in the House, anyway. 

He doesn't need to hear it from a forgotten hero, who still thinks that he's the gods' gift to mankind, too. 

A traitorous bead a pre leaks from his slit, discoloring the front of his leggings. He itches to take himself in hand and just be _done_ with it. 

Instead, he watches as Patroclus climbs atop his lover, that blasted mint green chiton shifting—he can see Achilles' cock, long and red and _weeping_ , curved up toward his belly. It's soon trapped, hidden away between their bodies... Achilles' entire body _sags_ into the field, like a body slowly sinking into the waters of the Styx, as Patroclus rocks his hips forward. His head thumps backward, his wavy hair fanning out around his head in a sort of broken halo, as he bunches the front of Patroclus' chiton in his hands and _whines_ for him to move _faster, harder_. In this position, Patroclus is in full-control of the tempo, and he appears to intend to take full advantage of having the great Achilles at his mercy. He thrusts forward sharply, and Achilles' sobs, his back arching in a beautiful bow—

Their eyes meet. Zagreus doesn't have the wherewithal to think to move, to _hide_. He's too busy trying to swallow his heart, which has leapt up into his throat. "F-Fiend!" Even with arousal lacing his voice, the threat in his tone is clear. A second later, his spear flies through the air, claiming a few of the hairs from the side of Zagreus' head. 

"Achilles, what is—" Patroclus cuts himself off rather abruptly, as Zagreus dashes past Achilles in a desperate attempt to reach the chamber door before the fleet-footed hero can get his wits about him. "A-Ah, didn't I ask that you be careful?!" 

"Hello, sir! Goodbye, sir!" Since it's technically a requirement that he speak to Patroclus before the door will unlock, he offers a quick greeting before—

"I'll take your head now, and save myself the trouble of despoiling my arena with your blood!" Achilles has retrieved his spear. He's still showing entirely too much skin—Zagreus' cock gives an appreciative twitch at the flash of bare thigh that comes right before his chiton starts rolling down—but he doesn't seem to care. 

The door to the chamber slides open far too slowly for Zagreus' liking. It occurs to him, belatedly, that Achilles could chase him through the entirety of Elysium, if he so desired. It is Patroclus' hand on his wrist that stops him, "Leave him be, Achilles. You will have your chance for blood soon enough." 

Achilles looks ready to protest, until Patroclus' hand sneaks up to tease the curve of his thigh. "Fine," he grits his teeth, "but once he enters the gates... even _you_ will not be able to save his worthless life." 

Achilles' words sting, but he does not stay to pick a fight. He rushes out the door, never more thankful to see a centaur heart—and a massive, stone fountain—waiting for him on the other side. As soon as the door is shut, he tucks himself into the corner and shoves his hand down the front of his leggings. His cock _aches_ , the slit dewy with an almost embarrassing amount of pre. He removes his hand just long enough to break one of the bottles of nectar to use as make-shift lube, before bringing himself to a quick, and ultimately unsatisfying climax. He finds himself wondering what might've happened, had Patroclus been unable to stay Achilles' rage. Would Achilles have really killed him then and there? Or... would they have subjected him to a punishment more befitting a voyeur? 

"Blood and darkness..." What did it say, that he thought he almost... _liked_ that idea? "Just a bottle of nectar, my ass..." 

It's a small mercy that an elite broadsword puts him out of his misery in the chamber just before the Arena. 

* * *

The next time he arrives in Elysium, the Fates are considerably kinder. It’d been slow-going—and honestly, he’d never really recovered from bearing the brunt of Alecto’s rage back in Tartarus—but the one upside to his utterly abysmal health is that Patroclus will not attack him on sight. In fact, the shade doesn’t even bother to open his eyes as Zagreus approaches, the dewy Elysian fields hissing softly beneath his flame-licked feet.

At first, he thinks that Patroclus might be sleeping, but then the shade speaks—

“You again, stranger.” His voice is so soft, it might be carried off by the wind; if there were such a thing in the Underworld. "And here, I was beginning to think that Achilles had scared you off for good."

Heat rises in the Prince's cheeks as he stutters out, "About that, sir... I really am sorry. I didn't intend to intrude on your private time with the Champion." He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the hole in the chamber wall where Achilles' spear had pierced the rows of ivy that twisted over it's surface. 

The corner of Patroclus' mouth quirks up into a small smirk as he waves the Prince off, "It is already forgotten." Maybe for him, who has uninhibited access to Achilles' unfairly perfect ass—but Zagreus is going to need a bit more time to come to terms with the fact that he _may_ have a sudden desire to test the Champion's fabled endurance. 

"I... Well, I'm glad, then." He winces a little, as he gingerly lowers himself down upon the lush grass. He's a little dizzy; the blood loss might be finally catching up to him—

“There is fresh fruit in my satchel, there. Take what you will. It will help to restore some measure of your strength.” He inclines his head toward a small, cloth bag. It is overflowing with all sorts of produce that Zagreus has never seen before.

“I… thank you, sir.” Zagreus stares at the assorted contents for a moment. He's seen the fruit for sale outside of the Elysium Arena, but had never thought to purchase any before. He selects a piece that is round and orange in color, and takes a hesitant bite straight into the rough skin. “It, um… It certainly has an _interesting_ taste.”

Patroclus stares at him for a moment, his expression blank. Then, he holds out his hand. “Give that here a moment.” Juice trickles down the side of the mutilated fruit as it passes from the Prince’s hands back to Patroclus, who proceeds to use his short nails to peel back the rough skin to reveal tiny sections of fruit underneath. He breaks one off and pops it into his mouth, “See? Much better.”

It is, indeed. Zagreus takes another bite, juice dribbling down his chin. “Thank you.” An awkward silence passes over them as Zagreus finishes his treat, then, “I have something for you, as well.”

“For… me?” Patroclus seems uncertain of how to process this. He seems even less certain when Zagreus places a bottle of nectar into his hands. “I’m… afraid that I have very little to offer, that would be worthy of such an offering.” He says. Zagreus’ eyes widen—Patroclus had already offered him so much, providing these brief moments of respite in-between harrowing battles to the death. He couldn’t rightly ask for, or accept, anything more. “But… this may aid you in your battle with Achilles.”

It seems... odd, that Patroclus would seek to aid him in his battles with Achilles. Odder still, that a broken spearpoint would do anything against a man that was, for all intents and purposes, invulnerable. Each of the keepsakes that he's been gifted thus far have been imbued with magic, granting him powerful abilities to help survive his countless battles throughout the ever-changing landscape of the Underworld—provided he meets certain conditions. Than's butterfly, for example, increased the strength of his attacks for every chamber he escaped without taking damage. Needless to say, it was virtually useless against Achilles—but, seeing as _everything_ was virtually useless against Achilles, he usually kept it equipped, regardless. 

He turns the spearpoint over in his hands. Aside from the fact that it's clearly been broken from the shaft of a spear, it is in excellent condition. He doubts that it has any remaining value as a weapon, but the point is sharp enough that it could very well be used as one. After offering it one last appraising glance, he tucks it away into his satchel, careful that the bottles of nectar already nestled inside won't cause it anymore damage. He still doesn't feel right about taking it from him. Even if he agrees with Aphrodite's claim that 'good relationships are built on reciprocity', Patroclus has already given him _more_ than enough. He gives him fresh fruit from his own stores, and peels it for him when Zagreus unknowingly takes a heaping bite of disgustingly bitter, leathery flesh. He shields him from Achilles' ire outside of the Arena—

Nevertheless, a gift is a gift, and Zagreus doesn't want to be perceived a rude. Besides... he is admittedly more than a little eager to discover all that the broken spearpoint can do. “I will take excellent care of it.”

Patroclus offers him a wry smile, “To be perfectly honest, I don’t much care _what_ you do with it. That spearpoint is broken from the weapon that brought me here. I always thought it a cruel trick of the Fates that it would survive even the waters of the River Styx.” He lays back down, crossing his arms behind his head. “I’ve no need for it, and having it on my person only serves to remind Achilles of what once was. Take it far away from here, and may it grant you better luck than I.”

Zagreus’ health is still rather low, so he selects another piece of fruit. This one is red, a few shades darker than his chiton, and plump. It is much harder that the first fruit that he’d tried, although the skin is significantly thinner—and smoother, too. He goes to take a bite, before remembering how absolutely _horrid_ the skin on the first fruit had tasted. After a moment, he holds it out to Patroclus, worried that this might be another fruit that is best peeled before eaten. Patroclus’ expression is blank as he takes the fruit from Zagreus and, with a small blade, begins to work away at the skin. This fruit’s flesh is a yellowish-white, with a sharp, but not unpleasant smell. It complements the fresh, clean scent of morning dew that clings to the grassy fields of Elysium—particularly those patches of grass that spring up alongside the River Lethe. 

Zagreus reaches for the fruit then, thinking it ready to eat... only for Patroclus to bury the blade deep into the skin, near the stem. He jumps a little in surprise, but calms considerably when he sees that Patroclus only means to remove the fruit's seed-laden core. He's not certain, but something tells him that those seeds wouldn't be nearly as appetizing as the now slightly-misshapen piece of fruit in Patroclus' hand. Granted, his only real experience with fruit prior to this is pomegranates, and _those_ seeds are hardly noticeable. He might even go so far as to say that they taste halfway decent. So... who knows? Maybe he'd like them? Now that the core has been removed, Patroclus hands the fruit back to him, a little bit of juice weeping from the crudely cut hole in the middle. 

He takes a bite. This one is undeniably sweeter than the last—less juicy, too. If he ever finds a way to best Achilles in the Arena, it might be worth it to shell out a few obol when he comes across the fruit stand. The flavor would be ruined by the waters of the Styx, but... maybe they'd be of some help in the Temple. "What _was_ that?" He asks, licking a bit of juice off of his finger.

"An apple." Patroclus says. "You could have eaten the skin, though some find the texture... displeasing." He sits up a little, "The first fruit that you tried was an orange. The skin is also edible, though I wouldn't recommend it. They serve as a decent snack—enough to ward off death until you stumble across something more substantial, at any rate."

Zagreus considers the bag of produce once more, "I'd... thought that only pomegranates grew in the Underworld."

Patroclus shrugs, “These aren’t native to the Underworld. Some are not even native to Greece.” He takes out a bright yellow, oddly phallic looking fruit, and begins to peel it. When he notices the Prince staring, he says, “This is a banana. It’s much sweeter than the first two that you tried. Creamier, too. Here.”

He breaks off a sizeable chunk near the tip and offers it to Zagreus. Zagreus takes it, and proceeds to nearly crush it between his fingers. Blood rises in his cheeks as he surveys the carnage. “It’s… _squishier_ than I was anticipating.”

The fallen hero snorts, “You’re a… _picky_ eater, aren’t you?” Zagreus wouldn’t consider himself to be a particularly picky eater. He has certain preferences, of course, but then, doesn’t everyone? Besides, one can hardly afford to be picky when they’re on the brink of death. “Oh, don’t give me that look, stranger. Achilles is a picky eater, too. The man won’t eat anything unless it is still—or was once capable of—bleeding.”

“That… must be rather hard to come by, down here.” He doesn’t know if shades actually _need_ to eat. Sure, the Head Chef spends all of his time in the Lounge, cooking for the house’s occupants, but… he doesn’t know if he’s actually seen him sample any of the food he prepares.

“He doesn’t eat often.” Patroclus concedes. Again, Zagreus is reminded of his plan to poison Achilles… but the entire idea is so underhanded, he can’t bring himself to entertain it for more than a few seconds. "Usually, it's fish he catches in the Lethe, though that poses it's own problems." 

Zagreus had never considered the potential ramifications of eating fish from the Lethe... Patroclus explains, a little ruefully, that if the food is not prepared properly, it will often continue to carry some of the mystical properties of the Lethe. Should enough of your diet consist of food that once inhabited the silvery-white waters—or, horrifyingly enough, was _washed in_ those waters—the effect was much the same as drinking it straight from the source. Zagreus barely has the chance to wonder if there is something important that Achilles has forgotten as a result of his rather limited diet, when Patroclus abruptly changes the topic to something decidedly _more_ concerning. Patroclus must have some sort of sixth sense when it comes to sensing Achilles' presence nearby, because he tosses another _apple_ at Zagreus and hurries him on his way. 

"You'd best be on your way then, stranger. If Achilles comes through while you are still in my glade, I cannot guarantee that you will escape unscathed." Zagreus is uncertain whether that means he can expect an attack from Patroclus, Achilles, or both. To be perfectly honest, _none_ of those outcomes are particularly pleasing.

"Right." He takes a quick bite of his apple (the skin isn't half-bad—he just needs to remember to keep an eye out for the seeds), before making a hasty exit.

* * *

Achilles makes quick work of him. He doesn't even bother to work the Arena into their usual frenzy before delivering the finishing blow—and even if he knows it's payback for walking in on them the other day, he still feels like he's taken on step forward, only to be sent tumbling three steps back. He doesn't understand why Achilles seems to hate him, so. Prior to their first encounter, he had _idolized_ Achilles—along with Heracles, Perseus, Theseus, and all of the other heroes that'd become legends, even amongst the gods. He'd had a poster of the fleet-footed hero in his room, hanging above his bed (directly next to a portrait of a triumphant Theseus mounted atop a freshly killed minotaur, which he had later taken down once he'd realized how much it upset his teacher). He'd torn the poster down shortly after his first death at Achilles' hands. 

He's almost thankful that Dusa never cleans his room. He fishes the poster out of his rubbish bin and flattens it out, before tucking it away under his pillow for... _safekeeping_.

Then, he reports to Theseus. "For you, sir." He offers him the last bottle of nectar he has. This is not his first offering to Theseus, although Theseus does his best to direct the Prince's attentions elsewhere. He'd been incredibly upfront about the fact that his heart lied with another, forever lost to him in the heart of the Elysian fields.

"Oh, what's this? Another bottle of nectar?" Theseus asks, as he takes the bottle from Zagreus' hands. "Are you sure that you can spare it? Weren't you going to offer nectar to Patroclus, as a token of your friendship?" 

"I... Well, I _did_ offer Patroclus a bottle. And he offered me _this_ in return." He shows the broken spearpoint to Theseus. 

"A keepsake," Theseus seems to be just as intrigued as Zagreus had been when Patroclus had first shown him the trinket. Although he doesn't seem to have the slightest idea how it works, he is encouraged by the fact that Patroclus claimed that it would be of use in his battles with Achilles. "You should equip it, when next you leave the House. If it is strong enough to aid you in the fight with Achilles, perhaps it may be of aid to you elsewhere, as well."

Zagreus blinks, "Did you... miss the whole part where I walked in on the two of them having sex?" Because that definitely seemed important. 

"Correct me if I'm wrong, my Prince, but... it sounds as though you rather enjoyed that." And... dammit, he's _right_ , but he doesn't have to rub it in. "And he stayed Achilles' hand when he sought to behead you." Zagreus is not entirely convinced that Achilles hadn't held off because he was half-convinced that, had he actually killed Zagreus, Patroclus wouldn't have let him finish... "That's definitely a start."

"It's... definitely _something_." Zagreus concedes. 

"Keep at it, then!" Theseus exclaims, "But first..." He sets his spear aside so that he might adjust the front of the Prince's chiton—he pulls the material back so far, anyone who cared to look would have an uninhibited view of the Prince's cock, tucked safely away beneath the thin red material of his leggings. "There. Perfect."

Zagreus rolls his eyes, "You're horrible." He makes no move to slide the chiton back. 


	3. The Myrmidon Bracer

It’s far too easy to get turned around in the ever-changing chambers of the Underworld. While he has a basic understanding of which chambers come when, far too much is left to chance for him to ever feel completely confident as to what’s awaiting him on the other side of a chamber door.

Take this run, for example. He’s encountered fountain chambers in Tartarus, Asphodel, _and_ Elysium, has managed to hold onto _all three_ of his death defiances by the very skin of his teeth, and has received a choice-cut of Cyclops Jerky from the lonely minotaur that idles away the hours by the Lethe. He even has Patroclus’ broken spearpoint equipped (it turned out to be quite a handy little keepsake, considering that it’d been broken from a weapon that had been used to _kill_ him). All in all, he’d say that he was about as well-prepared as he _could_ be to take on Achilles. And the Champion was _still_ able to dispatch him in a matter of moments—

As the Styx rose up to meet him, he was able to catch bits and pieces of the post-battle exchange between Achilles and Patroclus. “… _Hector’s_ spear? Are you trying to _aid_ the Prince, Patroclus?”

“Of course not, _philtatos._ ” Zagreus can almost hear the fond, yet exasperated eye roll that accompanies the words. “I am merely providing you with more opportunities to showcase your brilliance. You don’t mean to say that something as trivial as temporary invulnerability will wrest the title of Champion from the greatest of the Greeks.”

“No.” Achilles huffs, his pride bruised by Patroclus’ words. It’s true that Patroclus’ keepsake had done very little to slow the approach of his inevitable death, but… perhaps he hadn’t been using it right? “I just… why are you giving him anything at all? You owe him _nothing_ —less than nothing!”

“Achilles…” Zagreus sees the way that Patroclus’ mouth is moving, but can no longer process the words. A second later, his world is swallowed up in darkness.

When he next arrives in Elysium, he’s in… fairly decent shape. He’d lost a death defiance to Lernie back in Asphodel, but had stumbled across _three_ centaur hearts—in addition to receiving one from Thanatos—since. He’s right on the threshold where Patroclus may attack, so he remains on-guard as he presses forward into the familiar glade. As soon as the chamber door slides open, he can hear the fallen warrior talking to himself. Or, well… he _assumes_ that he’s talking to himself, seeing as he doesn’t actually hear anyone answering, but he’d learned his lesson about assuming that Patroclus would always be alone. He doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ be able to forget walking in on them—

Achilles is here, _again_. Except this time, he appears to be asleep, his head resting on Patroclus’ lap. His blonde waves are fanned out around his head in a bit of a lopsided halo, with a few of the wayward strands tumbling over the side of the river bank and floating, idly, in the River Lethe. Patroclus appears to be speaking to him, as he gently rakes his fingers over Achilles’ tender scalp. He is not speaking of anything in particular, but his voice seems to be providing the slumbering demigod with some measure of comfort. It is… _odd_ to see the Champion so relaxed, so _peaceful_. In fact, like this, he can almost see what it was about Achilles that made Patroclus fall for him…

Patroclus’ dark eyes flit over to where the Prince is standing, “Ah, stranger. You’ve returned.” His voice is quiet, but it carries over to where Zagreus is definitely _not_ hiding well enough. “You needn’t stand so far away. Come closer—”

“I…” Zagreus starts, only to realize that his voice is _much_ too loud. He snaps his mouth closed, causing his teeth to clack together sharply. “I don’t want to intrude… I just…” He fiddles with the bottle of nectar he’d brought. It feels _wrong_ to give it to him with Achilles present, even if the Champion is, technically, sleeping…

Patroclus offers him an appreciative once-over, “I see that the Fates have been kind to you—this time, at least.” And then, he chuckles, “There’s no need to reach for your weapons. I have no intention of fighting you, when my lap has been called to serve a far greater purpose.” He resumes stroking Achilles’ hair, ever so gently…

Zagreus relaxes a little, “I… I must confess that I feel like I keep intruding at the most ill-opportune moments.”

The shade shrugs, “There is little privacy in the Elysian fields, stranger. You are bound to find at least a handful of shades loitering in every chamber.” He seems remarkably unconcerned about the fact that his private life has become something of a show for the world’s dearly departed heroes.

“I… still…” Zagreus wanders a little closer. He steps lightly, worried that one wrong move will wake Achilles and unleash hell. Patroclus, it seems, has no such reservations.

“He’s no threat to you while he’s sleeping.” Patroclus says, “Shades do not necessarily _need_ sleep, but it can be nice, every now and then. I assure you that he will not wake for some time yet.”

“And he’ll just… sleep out here, in the middle of a field?” That seems… _odd_ , and more than a little dangerous.

Patroclus hums, “Indeed. Few would be so cowardly as to attack the Champion whilst he’s sleeping. And for those that would… well, I am here.” He inclines his head toward his spear, which is resting in the dewy grass, within arm’s reach. “I assure you, I am more than capable of handling most of the would-be heroes here in Elysium.”

Zagreus doesn’t doubt that. He’s crossed blades with Patroclus any number of times—and while the fallen warrior seems to be reluctant to take up arms most of the time, when he _does_ choose to fight, he certainly doesn’t half-ass it. He’s even managed to send Zagreus back to the House a handful of times—which is frustrating, of course, but nowhere _near_ as frustrating as being dispatched by the gods-forsaken Champion, who hadn’t even managed to work up a sweat. So yes, he believes that Patroclus can hold his own against the brightswords and longspears and soul catchers wandering about Elysium.

“If you’re in need of healing, there is some more fruit in my satchel.” Zagreus recognizes a few of the pieces inside from the last time they’d spoken like this. He selects what he believes is an apple, except this time, it’s yellow.

“Thank you, sir.” He steels himself, “But, actually… that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh.” Patroclus watches him, curious, as he turns the maybe-apple over in his hands. “What is it, then?”

“Well, I… I wanted to give you this.” He hands him another bottle of nectar. This one had come in conjunction with one of Lord Dionysus’ boons, “And also, to say that I was… well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you and Achilles. I mean, I suspected that he’d be a bit upset about the keepsake, but—”

“So you heard, then.” Zagreus sinks his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to draw beads of dark, crimson blood to the surface. He nods quickly, before averting his gaze to the silver-white waters of the Lethe. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, stranger. Achilles is grown, and his actions are no fault of your own.”

“Still, I—” Patroclus cuts him off with a firm look.

“If there were something you needed to apologize for, rest assured that I would tell you.” He turns the bottle of nectar over in his hands, before confessing, “I’m sorry that I don’t have anything more to offer you in exchange.”

The Prince shakes his head, “You’ve given me more than enough. Thank you.” He looks to the northeast of the chamber, where the chamber doors leading ever-deeper into Elysium hint at the treasures lying in the next two rooms: to the left is Charon’s shop, and to the right, the Minotaur’s glade. “Actually, there is one more thing…”

He’d given his last bottle of nectar to Patroclus, but the fallen warrior had been more than willing to part with his remaining fruit once the Prince explained that he intended to share it with Asterius, who was waiting in the next chamber. Zagreus had learned early-on in his travels that Patroclus and the Minotaur were unlikely friends, brought together by a mutual sense of unbelonging. Zagreus didn’t know much about Asterius, or how he came to be in Elysium (in part because the Minotaur himself didn’t truly understand it—one moment, he’d been floating in Erebus, the next, Lord Hades himself had been escorting him to the gates), but…

Well, Zagreus liked talking to him and passing time in his glade. Sometimes, if he was in the right mood, he could convince Asterius to engage in a bit of friendly sparring. It was never to the death, and Asterius always insisted on giving him a boon, no matter who turned out to be the victor. Zagreus thought it was nice, to have the opportunity to fight with someone for the sake of kinship, and not because that person was on his father’s payroll and desperate to see him return to the House ‘the painful way’. He brought Asterius nectar, whenever he had extra, and when he couldn’t, he tried to ensure he had _some_ sort of offering with him that the Minotaur would like.

Apples, as it turns out, were a delicacy that Asterius had been unable to take part in during his life. He’d discovered that he quite liked them during his early days in Elysium, but after Achilles had attempted to goad him into fighting in the Arena one too many times, he refused to step foot in Charon’s shop to actually purchase any.

Luckily, Patroclus’ satchel is abounding in apples of all different sizes and colors.

Asterius snorts, taking a bright green apple from the satchel. “You are too kind to me, short one. Surely, there are better uses for something such as this.” He motions toward the bag.

“Nonsense, Asterius!” Zagreus selects a banana, before plopping down alongside Asterius and wading his flame-licked feet into the Lethe. “There’s no better way to enjoy a snack than alongside a good friend! Besides, it’s the least that I can do, considering all that you’ve offered me.”

Asterius appears unconvinced, “I have no need for the boons they offer the exalted. In life, I did not wield my axe in the name of glory… but of survival. I am but a footnote in another hero’s story, and the others… they know this.” He sighs heavily, “I do not belong here. But I suppose it is my final punishment that I can never leave.”

Zagreus is silent for a long while, before confessing, “I… I know what you mean. I mean, our situations are totally different, and I don’t mean to make light of what you’re going through _at all_ , but…”

“Do you think that you will ever be able to best Achilles?” The Minotaur asks.

He shrugs, “I don’t know, honestly. I want to say that it’s possible. Paris fired a single arrow that felled him. Granted, it was guided by Apollo, but still. He was killed, once. It stands to reason it can be done again.”

“Is he not wholly invulnerable now?” He presses.

“He is.” Zagreus concedes. “That’s what makes all of this so difficult.”

“I know of a man who could defeat him.” Asterius says, after a long pause. “A great man, a true hero. The one who should have this place of honor in my stead.” He takes another bite of his apple, looking and sounding completely miserable. “Would that I could see him one more time, and tell him thus.”

To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t understand why Theseus doesn’t want Asterius to know that he was the one who arranged for the Minotaur to spend eternity in paradise. But then… before meeting Asterius, he’d never thought that an eternity in paradise could be quite so… _depressing_. The bull isn’t a _footnote_ in Theseus’ story, he’s the reason that Theseus even _has_ a story (well, more or less—there are some less than flattering bits about Theseus’ life that the man doesn’t like to talk about, like the story of his son, Hippolytus. In death, he’d had a chance to rectify things with his son, but that didn’t quite take away the ache of knowing how very _wrong_ he’d been at the time…).

The _point_ is, for all that Asterius clearly idolizes Theseus, the feeling is very much mutual. Now that he’s grown, and more or less able to handle himself in a war of wits with his father, there is no real reason for Theseus to remain on as a ‘guard’. What is he even ‘guarding’, anyway?

He’s a _dead_ demigod, standing guard in a House full of gods. Not to dismiss Theseus’ many talents, but… what exactly was he supposed to be guarding against, that Hades himself, or one of the many other servants of the House, couldn’t handle?

Zagreus realizes then that Asterius is staring at him, and most likely expecting him to respond to something he said.

“Sorry, Asterius, mate. I think I phased out for a second there.” The Minotaur doesn’t look terribly upset. He almost looks resigned, like he’s used to being ignored. It breaks Zagreus’ heart to see him like that.

“Do not let it trouble you, short one.” Oh, but it’s going to, now. “I simply asked if you’d decided on which boon you would like. I don’t mean to presume… but you look like you might benefit from the HydraLite Gold.” He’s not wrong. The fruit is helping, but not a lot. If he wants to survive the last few chambers before the Arena…

“That would be most helpful. Thanks, mate.” The stuff tastes horrible going down, especially when he can still taste the banana on the roof of his mouth, but he drinks it all. That will definitely help.

A snort, “Be well.” Asterius returns to studying the Lethe, and Zagreus takes that as his cue to leave.

Achilles, well-rested from his nap, lets him live for _seven_ whole minutes before sending him plummeting into the Styx.

* * *

It would be a little bit easier to bear the repeated losses were in not for the fact that his relatives on Olympus were all half in love with Achilles. Even Artemis, who so rarely had a kind word to spare for anyone, had come close to fan-girling over him upon discovering that the fleet-footed hero was the one repeatedly preventing him from reaching the surface. Worst of all, if the bastard would just _keep his mouth shut_ , Zagreus could very clearly see why everyone was falling all over themselves for a chance to have him acknowledge them—even _briefly_. Achilles was, quite literally, a walking wet dream. Those eyes… That _hair_ …

He’s… getting a bit carried away. Ahem.

The point is, by the time he reaches Elysium, and receives an array of epic boons from Artemis (none of which will do him _any_ good against the Champion—though it _is_ amusing to see how irate he gets when one of the seeking arrows manages to snag him in the heel), he really is in no mood to listen to her go on about how _wonderful_ he is. He hears enough of it from Aphrodite, who, like Theseus, seems to think that the best way to overcome Achilles is to ‘show a little skin’. He cuts her off mid-sentence, a bit too peeved about the entire situation to care about how rude he’d been (though he knows that she’ll be sure to remind him about it once Achilles hands his ass to him, _again_ ).

When he arrives in the Arena, Patroclus and Achilles are chatting. He can’t hear what they’re saying over the roar of the crowd, but then… he doesn’t really care. He likes Patroclus well enough, and thinks that it’s possible that they might one day be friends, but… he doesn’t see that ever happening with Achilles. And, sure enough, as soon as Achilles sees him, the bright smile on his face falters. His hand tightens on the shaft of his spear, but, surprisingly, he does not move to attack. At least, not immediately. Instead, he takes off one of his bracers and kind of… _lobs_ it at Zagreus’ feet. Zagreus just stares. Is he supposed to… pick that up?

“My Patroclus tells me that the two of you have been… chatting.” This has to be the longest that Achilles has ever gone without insulting him. He’d almost be impressed, if that weren’t just an indication that the Champion was an all around shit person. “He tells me that I should try being… _nicer_ to you.”

“So… your idea of being nice… is throwing bracers at me?” Zagreus asks, genuinely confused. Achilles huffs, puffing out his cheeks in true dramatic fashion. He turns to Patroclus for guidance and receives none.

“It’s not _just_ a bracer.” He spits. “It is _my_ bracer. I’ve no need of it now, so…” He waves his hand, as if Zagreus is supposed to be able to fill in all the necessary blanks. Zagreus is becoming more and more confused. “Perhaps it will provide your feeble body some measure of defense, so you do not come to me looking like the Hydra’s chew toy.”

And… okay, bevy of insults aside… “It’s a _bracer_. A _single_ bracer. It’ll protect a small portion of my arm, at most—”

“The _correct_ response is your welcome.” Achilles says, looking terribly smug. Zagreus frowns.

“What I _believe_ Achilles is trying to say,” Patroclus steps in, attempting to diffuse the situation before the two can come to blows, “is that he would like to offer you his Myrmidon bracer, as a token of kinship. It will help you to diffuse damage from foes that attack you from the front—”

“I said what I meant.” Achilles huffs, before adding, “Just make sure that someone doesn’t stab you in the back.”

“Why would I-I—” Pain blooms in his chest, like a flower. His chest feels tight, and suddenly, he can’t breathe—

“Achilles!” Patroclus admonishes, but it’s far too late for that.

Achilles spear is lodged in his chest, having impaled him in the back, straight through the heart. When had Achilles _moved_? He knew that the hero was fast, but this… Just a second ago, he’d been taunting him, throwing keepsakes at his feet. His mismatched eyes widen as he stares down at the blade protruding from his skin, just in time for Achilles to yank the spear back out and send him hurtling headlong into the Styx. That… That wasn’t even _fair_. He hadn’t even had a chance to mount any sort of defense against him, hadn’t even suspected that Achilles would attempt to attack him. He thinks that he hears the lovers fighting as his world fades to black.

He hates that the Myrmidon bracer is actually a really helpful keepsake. He’d kind of been hoping that it would be a useless trinket, because that would just _fit_ with Achilles whole assholish aesthetic. It won’t do anything against Achilles but delay the inevitable, but it does help to ensure that he’s in a little bit of a better position, health-wise, when he next steps into the Arena. Achilles looks genuinely surprised to see him back so soon. Patroclus looks like he has tried, and failed, to reason with Achilles (which… while sweet, is rather pointless, seeing as Zagreus knows the Champion will never apologize—hells, he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong).

Which is why Zagreus has decided that he has to fight fire with fire.

As Achilles readies to lay into him, Zagreus tosses a bottle of nectar at his feet. He almost wishes that the bottle had broken upon impact, just to add to the dramatic effect—but it simply bounces once, before rolling toward Achilles’ feet. “What’s this, now?” He asks. He doesn’t move to grab it.

“I’m not about to let you show me up.” Zagreus forces a smile, “In return for the Myrmidon bracer. Consider it a token of kinship.” He hisses the words back, feeling nothing of the sort.

“A token of…?” Achilles squats, his mint green chiton tightening around his ridiculously perfect legs. He retrieves the bottle, turning it over in his hands. If Zagreus weren’t mistaken, he would’ve sworn a slight blush was dusting his pale, pale cheeks. “For me…?”

“Unless there’s another person here who _also_ happened to give me a Myrmidon bracer?” Achilles narrows his sea-glass eyes at him, “It’s not a bomb, Achilles. You can stop holding it like it’s going to explode in your face—”

“You’ve poisoned this, haven’t you?” He snaps. He takes a moment to consider the contents very carefully, before lobbing the bottle at the nearest wall—sending broken bits of glass, and droplets of nectar, flying every which way.

“What the hell are you doing? That’s rare contraband!” In all his wildest imaginings, he’d never thought Achilles would _break the bottle_. Though really… he supposes that it’s all just par for the course.

“I’m on to you.” He levels his spear at Zagreus’ neck. “I am the Champion of Elysium! I will not be bought out with paltry offerings of _nectar_. Why would I need nectar, when I have an endless supply of ambrosia—the drink of the _gods_ —at the very tip of my fingers?”

Patroclus lets out a long-suffering sigh, “Philtatos… if he were going to poison you, do you really think that he would wait until you had given him such a _generous_ present?” He asks.

“I… really wouldn’t call it _generous_ , considering it was immediately followed by him _stabbing me in the back.”_

Patroclus nods, “But he _did_ warn you about people stabbing you in the back prior to that, so…”

It’s not like he doesn’t understand what Patroclus is doing. He just doesn’t think that they ought to be beholden to the whims of an overgrown toddler. Achilles is certainly old enough to understand why Zagreus would take offense to what he’d done—you don’t just offer someone a gift, and then use that gift as a distraction to attack _and kill_ the giftee. That was just… not okay. And then to turn around and throw Zagreus’ gift against the wall like that… Rage bubbles up inside of him, making it hard to think, hard to _breathe_. Not for the first time, he wishes that there were a real, _viable_ crack in Achilles’ armor, that he could do something more than poke at him uselessly and wait to die.

It’s a small consolation that Patroclus is the one to kill him, this time around.

“Welcome to the House of Hades, where Death is our life!” Hypnos chitters. Zagreus storms past him without a word, “Oh, I… I guess we’ll talk later then…”

“You’re back, my Prince.” Theseus doesn’t seem surprised. It eats at Zagreus in a way he doesn’t quite want to admit. “You seem to be particularly agitated, this time around. Tell me, did you have another unfavorable encounter with Achilles?”

“Unfavorable… yes, I suppose you could call it that.” He rakes his hands through his hair, “He gave me a keepsake—well, he threw a keepsake at me. So, I gave him nectar in much the same fashion, and he threw it across the Arena and accused me of trying to _poison_ him.”

Theseus cocks his head to the side, “I mean… you _have_ entertained the thought of poisoning him before.”

“That’s not the point.” Zagreus sighs, “I’m just… I’m tired of him treating me like I’m lesser than, just because _he’s_ invulnerable and I’m not.” He’s about to launch into a full-on tirade about how humiliating it’d been to have Achilles toss the bracer _on the ground_ , expecting him to pick it up—

Theseus lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, before looking out into the Main Hall to check on Hades whereabouts. Once he is satisfied that the lord of the house is otherwise occupied, he returns his attention to Zagreus and tells him brusquely, “We need to talk.”


	4. The Pact

It’s not yet time for Theseus to take his break. In fact, Zagreus’ returns rarely coincide with Theseus’ breaks—though his father does not seem to mind the demi-god holding brief conversations at his post, so long as they remain brief. If Theseus believes whatever it is he wishes to discuss is not fit to be said within earshot of his father’s desk, then…

There are only so many places in the House that’re truly private. Hades can see all corners of his realm at all times, and the remote corners of the House are no exception. Not to mention the fact that most of the shades who loiter in the House’s halls are on his father’s payroll—meaning that their ears are always open, and their tongues are always loose. That was one of many reasons his father had discovered his intent to escape before he could even _dream_ of mounting a proper escape attempt. It was endlessly frustrating, but it’d also taught him to be more careful with who he trusted.

One of the few safe places in the House is, ironically, the Prince’s bedroom. His father has proven, time and again, that he can see inside—he has commented, on numerous occasions, about the room’s near-constant state of disarray. _However_ , since the room doesn’t have a proper door, it’s easy enough to tell when the Prince is doing something other than sleep. Which meant that it was one of the few chambers in the House, or in all of the Underworld, that Hades wouldn’t inspect unless he had an absolutely compelling reason to do so. So, naturally, it’s where he takes Theseus—after ensuring his father is properly distracted.

Grabbing Mort off of the bedside table, he tucks the small companion into his arms and plops down on the side of his bed. Theseus, a bit more reserved, takes a seat on the chaise over by the Mirror of Night. He looks around the room, his blue eyes wide—Zagreus has just enough time to hope that he wouldn’t launch into a some cliched speech about ‘cleanliness being next to godliness’ (because, let’s be real—his father had made it clear that he’s nothing like the other gods, Chthonic or Olympian, and he’s certainly not going to start picking up after himself _now_ , when he’s become accustomed to the mess).

“Look,” Theseus looks uncharacteristically nervous. Zagreus is curious as to what could be bothering him to such an extent—”You probably know this already but, heroes? They’re not necessarily the best people.”

That is a terrific understatement. He’s met quite a few heroes during his treks through Elysium. Perseus was like a broken record, only willing to talk about beheading the fearsome Medusa. Neoptolemus slaughtered anything that came too close. And Achilles… “If you’re about to tell me that there’s something redeemable about Achilles—”

“I’m not.” He blurts, before back-tracking. “I mean, not in so many words? Listen, Prince… Achilles and Patroclus were after my time, so almost all of the information that I can share with you has come down through the grapevine. I can’t speak to it’s accuracy.” That’s… not at all reassuring. Still, he decides that he ought to hear him out.

“Well, since this is all beginning to seem like a lost cause… I can safely say that I’m willing to try anything at this point.” Perhaps his mentor would tell him that poisoning was his best chance, after all?

Theseus shifts, looking a little uncomfortable. “Love and hate are two very similar emotions.” He begins.

Zagreus blinks dumbly. Is he about to…? “Um, Theseus, sir? I believe that Father and I have already had this talk.” And it’d been every bit as awkward as one would expect. Necessary, yes, but also a bit traumatizing.

Theseus chokes on the stale air between them, “It’s… well, it _is_ that kind of talk, Prince, but not in the way that you’re thinking.” He takes a deep and entirely unnecessary breath, before continuing, “I told you of the time when I yet lived and breathed, and I bested the fearsome Minotaur, Asterius, with naught but my bare hands, yes?”

Zagreus nods. He had, indeed—and he’d repeated the story each time the young prince had asked, until Zagreus had come to realize that reliving the story caused his mentor a great deal of pain. “Yes, you’ve told me. Many times.”

The corners of the former King of Athens’ mouth quirk up into a small, lopsided smile, “Ah… but I’ve never told you the _full_ story. But… I think that you’re ready to hear it, now.”

At first, he is unable to tell how this version of the story is set to differ from all the others. It begins as it always does, with Theseus being offered as one of fourteen sacrifices to the bull of Minos. He’d entered the Labyrinth, intending to kill the bull and end the Athenians’ suffering… what he’d found was a desperate, half-starved monster with sorrowful eyes, who could barely force his tongue to cooperate long enough to form the syllables in his name. Even in his wretched state, he was still the most beautiful thing that Theseus had ever seen.

Theseus had been torn, his stomach roiling with disgust and terror for knowing what it was that the beast intended to do to him and the others. But there had been another, smaller part of him that’d felt pity for a creature that had been so clearly abandoned to a fate worse than death. He’d approached cautiously, but the Minotaur had not attacked. He’d shown a carnal interest in Theseus, and they’d lain together, right there in the middle of that horrendous maze that doubled as his prison. It wasn’t until one of the other boys had found them that Theseus had been forced to kill him.

“I don’t think he had any intention of attacking the young man.” Theseus says, his voice taking on a strange note of melancholy. “I think he was scared, and he panicked. And, at the end of the day, I had come there for one reason and one reason only—to slay the Minotaur. I couldn’t let him hurt anyone else.”

Zagreus is silent for a long while. He had always wondered if there were more to the story of the Labyrinth, and now that he knows… It just makes the entire story infinitely sadder. “I’m… afraid that I don’t really understand how this is applicable to my situation with the Champion.”

Theseus lets out a long-suffering sigh, “You do not like Achilles.” Zagreus nods. He’d thought that that much was obvious. “And yet, you cannot deny that you find Achilles to be attractive.”

“That’s because he _is_. Unfairly so.” He has a feeling that all of that bottled-up rage is contributing to his attractiveness somehow. He has yet to figure out the logistics of it, but there’s definitely an argument there.

“You don’t need to like him, and everything he does, to fuck him.” Theseus points out.

“I mean…” Okay, that is a fair assessment. However, “I would still need to be able to tolerate being in his presence for ten minutes or so. And be able to trust that he wouldn’t stab me in the back while he—”

But Theseus isn’t listening, having gotten caught up on something else entirely. “Wait, _ten minutes_? Prince… _no_. We _really_ need to work on your stamina.” Color rises in his cheeks. Was ten minutes… bad? He hadn’t thought so, but Theseus was already brainstorming ways to help him last longer in bed.

“That’s… all well and good sir, but… I can’t even hold a conversation with him long enough to make it past the point where he wants to _kill_ me. I highly doubt he’s going to just drop everything to take me right there in the Arena.”

His cock twitches in his leggings. That’s… definitely an idea that he wants to hold onto for later, if there ever _is_ a later. It’s just… It’s difficult, because he knows that Theseus is providing him sound advice. He just doesn’t know how to _capitalize_ on that advice to go the distance. There’s also the fear that whatever is waiting for him in the Temple will be so much worse than Achilles (which stands to reason, considering that every level of the Underworld had featured enemies of increasing difficulty—Achilles is just a _ridiculous_ jump from the Bone Hydra). What if he finally clears Achilles, just to fail within arms’ reach of the surface?

Theseus is silent for a long while, fingering the broken horn pendant he has dangling from his neck. He’d offered Zagreus the other half of the Minotaur horn as a keepsake, in exchange for his first bottle of nectar. He hadn’t asked, but he was willing to bet that the horn belonged to Asterius—especially with the way that Theseus seemed to pet it when he was feeling anxious.

And then he leaps up off the chaise, his blue eyes positively _electric_ in the dim light of the room.

“Men like Achilles value strength!” Zagreus hums. That would make sense, yes. But how would that help him—”Of course he isn’t taking you seriously. He can kick your ass in a handful of minutes… you’re not a _challenge_.”

Zagreus is about to remind Theseus that _he_ was the one who trained him how to lose so spectacularly, but only manages to get out a soft “Hey—!” before Theseus steamrolls right over him, as if he hadn’t even spoken.

He takes out one of the bottles of nectar that Zagreus had gifted him, pressing it into the Prince’s hands. “You need to pay another visit to Patroclus.” And he… okay. He was already intending to pay Patroclus another visit—he’s come to appreciate their little chats, as Patroclus always seems to be willing to impart valuable knowledge—even if that knowledge is about fruit.

If he’d thought that Theseus would offer anything else by way of explanation, he was sorely mistaken. Theseus took off shortly thereafter, citing a need to return to his station before Lord Hades grew wise to the fact that he was no longer guarding the hall. He left the Prince holding the regifted bottle of nectar, considering his options.

He couldn’t _stop_. Not after he’d come this far. Turning the bottle over in his hands, he decides that he’ll just have to… _improvise_.

* * *

“You want me to _train_ you?” Patroclus is looking at him like he’s suddenly acquired a second head, and the nectar he’d offered him by way of bribe might actually be poisoned. “Look, I know that these repeated loses in the Arena must be frustrating—” okay, that was a bit of an unnecessarily low blow, “but you’ve already bested me in combat numerous times—”

Zagreus waves him off, “But I don’t need to _best_ you.” He says. “You… You fought alongside Achilles in life. You know his fighting style, his tells… I know that I don’t have a chance of besting him in combat. But wouldn’t you say that every second I last against him is a kind of victory in and of itself?”

Patroclus blinks, “I suppose… in a rather roundabout way, yes.” He turns the bottle of nectar over in his hands, “You do realize what it is that you’re asking me. This is a direct betrayal of Achilles’ trust.” He says.

Zagreus shakes his head, “Don’t think of it like that.” Even if that _is_ perhaps the most accurate way to describe what this is. “Think of it as… providing Achilles with even more opportunities to prove himself to be the greatest of the Greeks.” He throws the Myrmidon’s words back at him, and lets him chew on them for a while.

Patroclus lets out a long-suffering sigh, “You do realize that there’s no guarantee that this will actually work, yes? Achilles’ invulnerability makes him unpredictable. At times, reckless.”

“Then, show me how I can take advantage of that recklessness.” His answer is immediate, his tone firm.

“Gods…” Patroclus tilts his head back, looking at where the sky _would_ have been, were they not in one of hundreds of thousands of chambers inside of the Underworld. “I’ve been brought to eternal paradise, and still, all I do is fight…” Zagreus feels a sharp stab of guilt in his chest, “Very well, stranger. Take up your weapon, and we will begin.”

He has Varatha equipped this run— the irony is not lost upon Patroclus. He is also wearing the Champion’s Myrmidon bracer (he is wont to admit that it is actually a helpful keepsake, especially when dealing with Alecto and her giant shuriken), the worn brown leather standing in sharp contrast to the vibrant, blood red bracer on the other arm. The blades of the spear spit of black and red sparks, infused with Lord Ares’ catastrophic power. It had absolutely decimated Alecto and the Bone Hydra, but, like every other Olympian boon, did little when faced with the awesome power of the Styx.

Patroclus reminds him that Achilles’ skill lies in his speed, not his strength. Despite what Zagreus may think, Achilles does not deal all that much damage per strike. It is the culmination of a number of strikes landing in a short period of time that causes the drastic drop in Zagreus’ health. While Achilles is striking, however, he often leaves himself open to attack (why wouldn’t he, when even the most calculated assault glances off of him as if it were nothing?). When Zagreus spots such an opening, he should move to strike—not with the intent to _injure_ , but with the intent to _disarm_.

If Zagreus can work his way up underneath Achilles elbow and thrust upward, the resulting shock should be enough to force Achilles to drop his weapon. Just because he is invulnerable does not mean that he cannot feel pain. His senses are, admittedly, rather dull—but with enough power behind his strike, he should be able to accomplish it.

Once he gets past the initial pain of being stabbed.

Patroclus’ spear cuts deep into the flesh of his bicep, severely hindering his ability to get his arms into the proper position to disarm him, as per Patroclus’ instructions. He decides to improvise, bringing one of his flaming feet up between Patroclus’ legs and _kicking_ with all the force he can muster. “O- _Oof_ …”

Patroclus drops, his knees bending inwards as he sucks in an unneeded breath of air. Then he yanks the spear out of Zagreus’ arm and buries it in his chest. It hurt like a bitch, and it cost him a death defiance, but it worked—sort of. “Err… that hurt.” He rubs at his chest, which is still bleeding, sluggishly.

“Of course it did.” Patroclus does not sound amused. It takes him a moment to collect himself. “Now… are you ready to try that again? Properly, this time?” He takes a few steps back, allowing Zagreus room to collect himself.

“Can I… ask you something?” He asks, as he readies his weapon. It feels incredibly heavy in his injured arm. “Out of all of the places to attack, why did you go for my arm first? I would’ve thought—”

The warrior frowns. “You asked me to train you so that you might stand a chance of surviving in the Arena with Achilles.” He says. “You do not think that Achilles is going to make it _easy_ for you to disarm him, do you?” He… supposes that that’s true. It would be right up Achilles’ alley to take out his arm just to prevent that very thing from happening.

Patroclus attacks again. He’s ready this time, dodging his first attack, before ducking around to put a bit of distance between them. He doesn’t try to attack Patroclus, understanding that he needs to focus all of his energy on anticipating the other man’s movements and responding accordingly. Patroclus comes at him again, this time aiming for his throat. Zagreus drives his spear up, the blade of Patroclus’ spear catching between the twin blades of Varatha. Black and red sparks fly every which way as he guides the point of the spear away from his throat and ducks down into the opening he created to—

Patroclus’ spear flies across the glade, landing on a patch of dewy grass with a soft _whoosh_.

“Good.” Patroclus shakes out his arm, before bending to retrieve his spear. “Again.” This time, he swings the spear like a sword, coming at the side of Zagreus’ neck with a broad, powerful stroke. The Prince ducks, though the blade catches a few locks of his spiky hair.

Patroclus’ stomach is wide-open, but his arm is tucked close to his side. Zagreus could try the same move again, but… maybe this is Patroclus’ way of saying that he needs to try something new? Following his instinct, he takes hold of Patroclus’ other arm and drags him into a sharp knee to the stomach, “Sorry, sorry. Not actually trying to hurt you…”

Patroclus just grunts as he’s dragged around like a life-size ragdoll, thrown down onto the ground and… oh. Now, there is a godling sitting on top of his aching stomach, staring down at him intently. “Um… stranger?”

“Was that right?” Zagreus asks, practically bouncing on top of the shade in his excitement. “I know that you didn’t like it when I improvised the first time, so I tried to go for something less… painful.” Now that everything is said and done, he _does_ feel bad for hitting him in the balls. “Oh, but you’re… you never dropped your spear.”

“Yes, well…” Patroclus looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that Zagreus is _still_ sitting on top of him. “I was attempting to teach you that patience is a virtue, and sometimes you have to wait for an opening…”

“Oh.” Well, he feels rather foolish, now.

“…But this was… not _horrible_ , as far as improvisations go.” Patroclus admits, before shoving Zagreus off of him.

Zagreus had not been expecting to be pushed, and so he falls over with all of the grace of a newborn fawn. He very narrowly misses landing headfirst on Patroclus’ spear (if only because Patroclus had the foresight to yank it out of the way before the Prince’s head could make it that far). It takes Zagreus a moment to get his bearings, but once he seems to be able to tell up from down once again, he is ready to jump back into training. Patroclus, however, seems to have other plans. He makes no move to rise from where he had fallen just a few moments earlier, choosing instead to sit up a little straighter and adjust his chiton.

“Are you… alright, sir? Did I hurt you? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.” It was definitely a bit… _odd_ to be worrying about whether he’d hurt Patroclus, considering that they’d fought to the death (or, the Underworld equivalent thereof) on numerous occasions. That, and—

“I am dead, stranger.” There’s a strange cant to Patroclus’ voice, as if he finds this entire situation to be morbidly amusing. “Nothing you can do can truly hurt me. Not anymore.”

“You don’t feel pain from your wounds?” Zagreus asks, unable to keep the hint of fascination from creeping into his tone. It’s rare for him to find a friendly shade, with some level of combat experience, who is also willing to sit and talk with him for a while.

Patroclus shrugs, “I am hardly ever wounded. Achilles ensures that I am well taken care of.”

Zagreus frowns. One, that didn’t answer his question. And two—“I’m sorry if I’m crossing some sort of line here, but… you don’t seem all that happy about that.”

Patroclus’ dark eyes flicker up to meet his, “The glory of Elysium was not meant for me, stranger. When I came before Lord Hades, I was told that I had earned a place in the Asphodel Meadows, for a transgression I had committed in my youth. I didn’t fight it. I saw no need. I had finally gone to the one place my _philtatos_ could not follow—and I did not _want_ him to follow.”

Zagreus listens intently as the other shade tells him of his time in Asphodel. Apparently, when he had arrived, the River Phlegethon had not yet reclaimed the lush meadows that Zagreus had been expecting to see the first time that he’d arrived on the floor. It was a true ‘middle place’, for those who had not done such terrible things as to deserve eternal torment, but had also failed to achieve such glory that their name would live on in the annals of history. In life, Achilles had promised that their names would live on together, forever—that they would be inextricably tied, even in death. But it would seem that hadn’t come to pass.

He didn’t know how long it took for Achilles to find his way to the hallowed chambers of Elysium. Time works differently in the Underworld, where the days and the nights all blend together into one near-endless cycle. But Achilles had marched down from Elysium into the depths of Tartarus, where he’d awaited an audience with Lord Hades—and the Lord of the Underworld had convinced him to sign a pact, whereby Achilles got to spend the rest of eternity reveling in glory and Patroclus got to standby and watch the last bits of Achilles’ already wanting humanity fade away into nothingness.

This wasn’t paradise. This was like a nightmare that he never had the chance to wake up from, because someone else had gambled with his life and taken away his right to choose. Achilles ensures that he’s taken care of, yes, but he has no sense of personal autonomy, no freedom, no choice—

He would give _anything_ to not have to fight in the arena day in and day out. Or, to not have to fight at _all_.

Zagreus frowns, “I… If Achilles made a pact with my father, then I might be able to break it. Or lighten the terms, a little.” Perhaps this was another way to earn the Champion’s favor? If Patroclus were happier, then certainly, Achilles would be happier too, right?

Patroclus shakes his head, “I could not ask you to do that, stranger.” He shifts a little, still looking incredibly uncomfortable. Zagreus wonders if it’s actually true that he cannot hurt him… “Besides, the pact allows for Achilles to think he’s caring for me, in his own way. I cannot rightly take that away from him.”

Zagreus… isn’t sure that he understands, “But… weren’t you just saying how unhappy you were, having to fight in the Arena all the time?” Maybe he’d misunderstood?

Patroclus shrugs, “I am not… unhappy. I merely have a perpetual feeling of being… out of place.” He choses his words carefully. Then, “Happiness is relative. Being with Achilles… well, it makes the passage of eternity a little easier to bear.”

“I… I honestly wish that I could see him the same way that you do, sir.”

“Hmm,” the shade hums, “You’d best be on your way now, stranger. I believe that that is enough training for one day.” Zagreus nods, beginning to collect himself. This was the first bout of his training, but hopefully not the last. He’d just have to prove to his teacher that he could put the skills he’d learned into practice.

Patroclus does not move to see him off.

* * *

It takes Achilles almost fifteen minutes to put him down. Most of this is due to the fact that he’d disarmed him with such force that his spear had flown clear across the arena, almost beheading one of the shades in the nosebleed seats—Achilles had stared at him, blankly, for a solid thirty seconds after that. Patroclus had just snickered in the corner.

It wasn’t a victory. Not yet, anyway. But it certainly felt like one.


	5. Trouble in Paradise

“Welcome to the House of Hades!” Hypnos chimes, his thin lips curled into a bright smile. “Oh, Zagreus! Seems you met with the business end of the Champion of Elysium’s spear yet again, hmm? Oh well, there’s always next time.”

Zagreus shakes the remaining droplets of blood from his hair. “Next time. Right.” He hasn’t felt this confident about his odds against the Champion since… well, never. There’s a part of him that’s actually excited to return to the Arena, to see if he can push his newfound luck just a little bit further.

But first…

There was something about his conversation with Patroclus that had been bothering him. The shade had mentioned that Achilles had made his way down from Elysium to petition Lord Hades to transfer Patroclus from Asphodel into Elysium, and that Lord Hades had convinced him to sign a pact that would guarantee Patroclus a one-way ticket into paradise… in exchange for what? The fact that there was a pact implied that Achilles had sacrificed something in return, but… the Champion seemed whole. Better than whole. He was literally invulnerable—nothing could so much as _touch_ him. He had retained his own place in paradise, and was allowed to spend eternity alongside his _philtatos_. Everything seemed perfect—especially since Achilles seemed all but oblivious to Patroclus’ suffering.

While it was entirely possible that Patroclus knew the exact bargain that Achilles had struck with his father, something told Zagreus that that wasn’t the case. Somehow, he just _knew_ that Achilles would only tell Patroclus that which was strictly necessary, to ensure that he had a decent-enough grasp of the situation. Achilles seemed the type that would wholeheartedly believe that the suffering was his alone to bear—that the pact was between himself and Lord Hades, and that Patroclus’ only job was to reap the benefits of it. Instead, he had a front-row seat to Achilles’ demise.

There’s a part of him that doesn’t care. Achilles is an asshole, who has chosen to make his bed alongside Lord Hades. He is a grown man who needs to learn how to accept the consequences of his actions. There’s another, larger part of him that remembers the hollow look in Patroclus’ eyes as he explained how each battle in the Arena had begun to chip away at the little bits and pieces of humanity that Achilles had left. If he were to do anything, he would be doing it for Patroclus, because Patroclus most certainly did not deserve this.

With this in mind, he decides to approach Nyx about regaining access to the administrative chamber.

The avatar of night offers him a small smile as he dashes over to her post, sending the pieces of sheet music on Orpheus’ music stand flying in the wind. “Nyx, I… I was wondering if I might ask you a hypothetical question.”

She cocks her head to the side, black hair spilling over her pale shoulder. “Of course, my child. Tell me what is on your mind.” His mismatched eyes skirt over to where his father is busy sorting paperwork. He’s likely far too busy to pay their little conversation any mind, but… well, he’s feeling just a little paranoid.

“I was wondering… hypothetically speaking, of course… if I wanted to review the terms of a specific shade’s pact with father, how would I go about… well, _doing_ that?” Zagreus remembers the organized chaos of the Administrative Chamber all-too-well. Even if he _were_ to be able to gain access, the odds of him being able to locate a specific pact—

“You seek the pact of the shade called Achilles.” It’s not a question. Zagreus stiffens a little, unsure why he’s surprised that Nyx already knew what it was that he was after.

He nods, swallowing hard. “I would like to… review the terms. For a friend.” Zagreus doubts that he has the power to change anything, at least not until he can collect further bounties to pay-off the House Contractor, but…

“First, you will need to regain access to the Administrative Chamber.” He has a feeling that the House Contractor’s price will be particularly steep, but he does not let that deter him. One of the benefits of repeatedly failing to reach the surface is that he has accumulated quite a few gemstones—and diamonds.

He looks to his father again. The god of the dead is half-listening to a shade petition for… clothing made of flame-resistant fibers? It seems this sorry sod kept catching on fire from the blistering magma that flowed in the River Phlegethon…”Alright,” he says, eager. He doesn’t know how much time they have left until—“And then what?”

“You will find the pact that you are seeking in the bottom of section Sigma-Beta-Epsilon.” Nyx tells him. “Bring it to me, here, and we will discuss the matter further.”

It’s not an immediate solution, but it’s a step in the right direction. He thanks Nyx for her time, before catching sight of a familiar pair loitering at one of the tables that had been set up near the entrance to the lounge. It’s not unusual for him to see Thanatos and Megaera together during their breaks, although the last time they’d been standing around like this had been… decidedly less than pleasant. He frowns, recalling the iciness in Meg’s voice when she’d told him that he was free to do whatever he wanted around the House, seeing as he knew he was no longer welcome. He likes to think that they’re in a better place now, but… admittedly, sometimes it’s difficult to tell. Meg is prickly on the best of days, and Than has been known to just… poof off into oblivion if things become too much.

Zagreus is tempted to just continue on his way. Both Thanatos and Megaera have made it clear that they won’t accept further offerings of nectar from him, and he doesn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping again—even if he is absolutely, unashamedly eavesdropping on their conversation right now. Eventually, it is Thanatos who makes up Zagreus’ mind for him. He rolls his eyes and cocks his head to the side, beckoning him over. Zagreus, caught, finds that he has little choice but to oblige.

He’s never been particularly good at saying no to Thanatos… and this time, he _really_ doesn’t want to.

“Tch.” Meg frowns, her teeth sinking into her bright pink lower lip. “What did I tell you, Zag? All of these little escape attempts of yours? Meaningless. You’ll never best Achilles.”

“Oh, would you like to join his little fan club, too? Artemis and Aphrodite are already singing the bastard’s praises every chance that they get—and Artemis doesn’t like _anyone_!” Except Calisto, but that was neither here nor there. “At the rate his posthumous following is growing, we might as well all have t-shirts made up—”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Zag?” Her tone is _just_ this side of condescending, and he hates it. It reminds him of the tone that Alecto uses whenever she calls him redblood. In fact, he almost tells her that, just to piss her off.

He only bites his tongue at the last minute because he’s in no hurry to die, again. “What’s there to be jealous of? That he’s an invulnerable demigod with legs for days—” Thanatos’ face twists with displeasure, “and a head so swollen it’s amazing that his neck hasn’t snapped beneath its tremendous weight?”

“Aww… the little baby is upset because he can’t pummel all his problems and make them disappear.” Meg takes a swig of her drink, “Face it. Some opponents just can’t be beaten. Why don’t you quit while you’re ahead?”

He narrows his mismatched eyes at her, “Because I still have my pride.” Did she really still not understand?

“So does Achilles.” She slams her cup down on the table, the surface rocking ever so slightly with the force of the impact. “It’s what killed him.”

He supposes that that’s true, in a rather roundabout way… but really, if she wants to be technical, _Apollo_ was the one who killed Achilles, through Paris. The Fates knew how Achilles would die, and the events which would precede his death, long before Achilles was born. Lachesis had known that Achilles would not actively seek out his own death, had known that the only way to set the fall of Troy into motion would be to give him something of value—and then take it away. Yes, Achilles’ pride had resulted in Patroclus’ death, which had in turn hastened his own. But, Achilles’ stubbornness aside… if Achilles _hadn’t_ refused to fight, things likely would’ve unfolded in much the same way. Because Patroclus _had_ to die before Achilles. It was the Fates’ will.

“I heard that you managed to disarm the Champion.” Thanatos chimes in, his voice quiet, contemplative. “I must say, I’m impressed. You’ve always been a bit reckless when it comes to combat. I had been worried that the Champion would exploit one of your many… _many_ openings and make quick work of you.”

He doesn’t mention the many, _many_ times that Achilles had done just that. He thinks it’ll ruin the moment.

“Yes, well…” He offers Thanatos a bright smile, and receives a small, somewhat shy one in return. “It’s rather difficult to defend against a scythe, whose blade is nearly half my size.” He says.

Thanatos licks his lips, “Excuses.”

Zagreus wonders if Than or Meg would have the same problems with Achilles as he has been experiencing. To his knowledge, Thanatos has never encountered a soul that he could not reap. Although there _was_ that whole nasty business with Sisyphus… Meanwhile, Meg is primarily asked to torture the inhabitants of Tartarus, and is rarely called upon to raise her whip to _kill_. After a handful of enhancements from the Mirror of Night, it had been easy enough to send her back to the House and continue on his way. Her sisters, likewise, were not all that difficult to beat.

And their whips would likely do very little in the face of Achilles’ invulnerability.

“I have every intention of escaping Elysium.” It’s clear that Meg, at least, doesn’t believe him. Thanatos is… clearly skeptical, but open to persuasion. “I just… need to find my in. And I think I have it.” He holds up a bottle of nectar.

Thanatos furrows his brows, “Didn’t he throw one of those back at you the other day, or night?” He asks.

Zagreus blinks. “How did you know that?” He hadn’t thought that Thanatos was in-residence after that run. How could he… He had literally checked every corner of the House, even those where the avatar of death did not normally linger. And the older god had snuck past him like a slimy little projelly.

Thanatos and Megaera exchange a look, before Thanatos admits, “Lord Hades found it particularly amusing that you would attempt to ply the Champion with nectar. It was the talk of the House for _days_ , I couldn’t help but overhear.”

He rolls his eyes, “Of course he would make fun of me for that.”

“I think it’s… nice.” Thanatos shifts, looking more and more uncomfortable the longer the conversation continues. “Perhaps he’s just not… not used to receiving such trinkets without expecting—you know what, forget it.” Zagreus opens his mouth, about to ask him to stay, but it’s too late.

With Thanatos gone, and Megaera ordering her next round of shots, Zagreus decides that it’s time for him to take his leave. He does a quick run around the House, delivering nectar to all those who would still accept bottles from him, before entering his bedroom. With no time to waste lying down, he continues on into the armory, where he switches out Varatha for the Twin Fists of Malphon. He also exchanges Achilles’ bracer for Patroclus’ broken spearpoint, deciding that a little bit of extra protection certainly wouldn’t hurt his chances of reaching the surface…

* * *

The Fates have a cruel sense of humor. Not only is Patroclus not alone when Zagreus finally manages to reach his glade, but his companion is a red-faced Achilles.

They seem to be fighting. Or… no, not quite. Achilles is the one doing most of the yelling, while Patroclus sits and listens in companionable silence. There’s more than enough noise for Zagreus to make it to the stone statute on the far side of the chamber unnoticed—he tucks himself taut against the side of the smooth, stone slab and listens.

“If this is _truly_ paradise, why must I still endure the likes of _Agamemnon_?!” Zagreus’ eye twitches. Oh, was there something about the resplendent paradise that was Elysium that was not to his highness’ liking?

The House of Hades is pleasant enough, for Tartarus. It is certainly a far cry from the hell that most of the shades in Tartarus endured on a daily basis. But the House could not even hold a candle to the splendor of Elysium. It was truly a shame that the shades here spent all of their time battling one another to their perpetual not-deaths. If he could spend an eternity in Elysium… gods, he didn’t even know where he would begin! He would want to spend time with all of the warriors, of course. It was one thing to read recitations of the great deeds of heroes in the cold, unforgiving tomes contained in the depths of the administrative chamber. It was another thing entirely to hear those stories straight from the horse’s mouth…

Gods, if only he didn’t shudder at the idea of holding an actual conversation with Achilles… to hear about the Trojan War from the greatest of the Greeks himself! It would be like a dream come true. Now, instead of living the dream, he got to experience the nightmare that was falling to Achilles’ spear time and time again…

(Megaera had gotten on his back not too long ago, grumbling something about despoiling the resplendence of Elysium. While it is true that he certainly _could_ have gone there while he was still formally employed by the House, his father refused to send him further than the bounds of Tartarus. It was easier to keep track of his messes that way.)

“Peace, Achilles.” Patroclus’ voice is soft, his tone bordering on fond exasperation. Zagreus doubts that this is the first time that they’ve had this exact conversation. “It will not be long until the Prince arrives. He is already in Elysium.”

“Ah, yes. The _Prince_.” Zagreus clenches his fists, his stomach twisting at the open disdain in Achilles’ voice.

“You will have your chance with him in the Arena, _philtatos_.” He says.

But Achilles is primed for a fight _now_ —Zagreus can hear it in the edge of his voice as he bites back, “You have been acting… _oddly_ as of late, Pat. It is almost as if you’re trying to hide something from me.” He says. The knot in Zagreus’ stomach tightens. “Tell me… do you know what will happen if the Prince _does_ manage to escape?”

Patroclus is silent for a long while. Achilles does not push him to answer, although Zagreus can hear the grass ruffling beneath his feet as he shifts back and forth uneasily. “I do not know, not for certain. But I can hope.”

Achilles huffs, “Hope…?” That single word seems to make him deflate. “You don’t understand. Not truly.”

“Then _make_ me understand, Achilles.” Patroclus’ tone becomes sharp, demanding. It causes Achilles to stop moving, if only for a moment. Silence falls, broken only by the soft hiss of water rushing through the Lethe.

Zagreus is just beginning to think that Achilles isn’t going to respond when the other man lets out a long, shaky sigh, “You do realize… that this is only paradise because you are here with me, correct? If you were… to go somewhere where I could not follow… there would be nothing left for me here.”

“You have earned your place here.” The fallen warrior begins, “I…”

“No-one deserves to be here more than you!”

Achilles’ voice is desperate, raw— _broken_. He doesn’t think that he’d ever heard the Champion speak with such raw emotion before, not even when he was belittling him in the Arena. Against his better judgment, he peers around the base of the statue to get a little bit of a better idea as to what’s going on. Achilles is standing alongside the River Lethe, gripping the shaft of his spear so tightly that his vaguely translucent knuckles are flushed white. His entire body is trembling, the equivalent of tears brewing in his sea-glass colored eyes. In that moment, he does not appear as the fearsome warrior who had cut down ten-thousand Trojans, who had attached Hector’s broken body to his chariot and rode him around the walls of Troy…

He looks like a toddler on the brink of a tantrum, to overcome with emotion to be able to effectively communicate just what it is that’s upsetting him. Too distraught to persuade Patroclus that his point is valid, and that there are no other shades loitering around Elysium that deserve to sit where he does—at the right hand of the Champion, the greatest of the Greeks. Tartarus and Asphodel were beneath him, the rank-and-file exalted lesser than. The most beloved of Achilles, fearsome warrior in his own right, deserved to spend eternity in paradise.

Anything less was simply unacceptable.

“It would seem that we have an unreconcilable difference of opinion, then.” Patroclus is unmoved by Achilles’ theatrics, which only seems to further upset the fallen hero. “I don’t belong here.”

Achilles’ chest heaves, “If you do not belong with me, then where…?”

Patroclus sighs, “Achilles… where you go, I will follow. That is how it has always been… and that is how it will always be.” Patroclus lowers his gaze, considering the silver-white water of the Lethe. “I want nothing more than to spend an eternity by your side. But I do not belong here—”

“But… where else would we go? I have _earned_ the splendors of Elysium—I will not spend the rest of eternity _roasting_ in the lava pits of Asphodel with the middling souls who could not muster the gumption to make something of their measly lives. I… Not even for you, Patroclus.”

“I see…” He nods solemnly. “Then, I suppose we have nothing else to talk about.”

Despite Patroclus swiftly and firmly ending their conversation, Achilles lingers for another moment or so, looking as though he’s contemplating whether or not to rock the boat. Eventually, he huffs, muttering something about ungrateful partners, before storming off… he ends up knocking over the basket at Patroclus’ side, various foods tumbling out onto the grass. Had they been having a picnic? Had this been a… a _date_? Something about that just makes everything he’d just witnessed all the sadder.

The exit to the chamber opens and closes with a decisive _thwump_ , the ground beneath them trembling with the force of the door sealing shut once again. Zagreus takes a deep breath, feeling incredibly awkward for having set aside yet another bottle of nectar in the hopes of convincing Patroclus to train with him a little bit more.

As it is, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to explain the fact that he’d just been eavesdropping on… _all that_.

Blood and darkness, he really wants to dunk Achilles face-first into the Lethe.

When he finally musters the courage to come out of hiding, Patroclus is less than enthused to see him. “Begone from here, stranger. I’m in no mood to entertain.” Zagreus opens his mouth, wanting to offer the other man something—anything—to wipe away the look of absolute devastation on his face.

In the end, he honors Patroclus’ wishes and leaves his glade without a word.

He hears something suspiciously close to a sniffle echo in the silence as the chamber door slams shut behind him.

* * *

“Short one,” Asterius snorts, “it has been some time since you’ve last graced my chamber.”

He hadn’t been expecting to run into Asterius this run. He can hear the dull roar of the Arena in the distance, meaning that he’s approximately one or two chambers away from facing the Champion. With a measly one-hundred and two obol in his pocket, he knows that he won’t be able to afford anything spectacular from Charon. Perhaps a gyro for his trouble? If he was lucky, he might be able to break open a couple of urns along the way and purchase himself a mystery boon or another centaur heart… but who was he kidding? The Fates had been feeling particularly cruel this time around—he’d only happened across two centaur hearts across all three levels of the Underworld, he’d spent all of his coin replenishing his death defiances (only to lose them again almost immediately thereafter)…

He’d just been forced to witness a fight between the Champion of Elysium and his lover. Blood and darkness, as if he didn’t already have one-thousand and one reasons to hate Achilles… He didn’t think that he’d ever be able to get the sound of Patroclus’ weak little sniffle out of his head.

“It’s been awhile, Asterius.” He concedes. The passage of time in the Underworld still trips him up every once in a while, despite having spent his entire life determining time by the subtle variations in Ixion’s light.

“The Champion came through a short while ago. He seemed… distressed.” Distressed was certainly one way to describe Achilles’ mood upon leaving Patroclus’ glade. Zagreus couldn’t help but be thankful that he hadn’t decided to take his frustrations out on the bull…

“There… seems to be a bit of trouble in paradise.” Zagreus chooses his words carefully. He knows very little about the situation, and is well-aware of the fact that he could, inadvertently, make it worse.

Of course, that had never stopped him from meddling before, but…

Something about this feels… different. It’s not the same as reconciling Orpheus and Eurydice… or trying to convince Sisyphus that there was more to the afterlife than pushing a giant rock up a hill over… and over… and over again. And it wasn’t just because Achilles was capable of ending his life with a well-timed flick of the wrist (though, to be fair, that was a decent part of it—Eurydice might come at him, metaphorical guns blazing, but the worst she could do to him was close her door and tell him he was no longer welcome in her house). Sisyphus and Eurydice and, yes, even Asterius… as cruel as it sounded, were merely footnotes in his story. His success didn’t hinge on them getting their happily ever afters—that was just a bonus that made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

If _whatever_ was going on between Achilles and Patroclus imploded… he’d never escape the Arena.

Asterius nods in understanding. He may not have the greatest grasp of human emotions, but he understood anger and pain well enough. “Take this, then. You’ll likely need it.” He presses a Kiss of the Styx into Zagreus’ palm. In the distance, Zagreus registers the sound of the chamber door unlocking.

“Thank you, sir.” Asterius snorts, mumbling underneath his breath that he is undeserving of such titles. “Nonsense. You’re more of a gentleman than most of the exalted here in Elysium, and I won’t hear otherwise.”

The minotaur does not fight him this time. “You are far too kind, short one.”

“The rest of the world is far too cruel.” Zagreus corrects. “Oh! And before I forget. For you, sir.” He hands him the bottle of nectar he’d been saving for Patroclus. He stares at it for a moment, as if surprised that Zagreus would continue to bring him such offerings.

Then, he sighs, “If you continue to lavish me in gifts like this, short one, I will be obligated to one day return the favor.”

“Nonsense.” Zagreus says again, dismissing him with the wave of a hand. “You owe me nothing. But if you one day decide to offer me something in return, besides your usual selection of goods… I won’t refuse it.”

Asterius once again bids him farewell, and he turns his focus to the exit of the chamber. The Fates have left him with no options—he must proceed through Charon’s shop in order to reach the Arena. He counts his obol again, praying to the gods that he might’ve magically acquired just a few more coins.

When no additional obol magically manifest in his coin purse, he sighs, the sinking feeling in his gut telling him that the odds of Charon offering him any sort of discount on his wares were about the same as him lasting more than three minutes in the Arena with an emotionally distraught Achilles…

He _really_ doesn’t like those odds.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on twitter [@MsThunderFrost](https://twitter.com/MsThunderFrost)


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